


Survivor

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canonical Rape/Non-con, Character Study, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21599431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: Arthur walks into the wrong cabin and is sexually assaulted. Canonical rape if you go to Sonny's house in your play through.[Arthur did not consider himself to be a good person. That said, he could hardly believe that anyone would do something like this to anyone else. The memory, dear God, the memory, played over and over in his head. It haunted his dreams; it haunted his thoughts. Clammy hands. Hot breath. Burning pressure.All them folks I robbed, all them people I hurt…I deserved this."No, Arthur, you didn't."]
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan/Sonny, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I am playing RDR2 for the first time since I have PC not PS4, and I was not aware that there is a side experience where Arthur is raped.  
> I came across this scene and it has not sat right with me since.  
> As a victim of sexual assault myself, I feel that the way the event was handled cheapened the intense emotional damage that rape does, and I wanted to explore it more fully for the sake of character development and my own sanity. I personally do not agree with Rockstar’s inclusion of this scene. In my opinion, it was callous, inappropriate, and completely unnecessary.  
> The attack occurs, Arthur responds to it briefly, and then everything goes back to normal as though it never happened. While yes, some people hide that they were raped for years or longer, Arthur strikes me as a very sensitive, very emotional character that something like this would impact deeply. I feel it would have changed many of his responses and behaviors in the game even if he never openly admitted he was raped.  
> I wrote this because I felt that IF this scene had been treated correctly by Rockstar’s writers, it could have been a major plot point that causes a huge amount of character growth.  
> It is very outside of my usual writing subjects, but I couldn’t get it off my mind, so here it is.
> 
> PLEASE take the trigger/content warnings seriously. 
> 
> CW: RAPE  
> CW: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS  
> CW: ASSAULT  
> CW: MURDER BY IMMOLATION  
> CW: SEXUAL ASSAULT  
> CW: ANXIETY ATTACKS/DEPRESSIVE EPISODE

When Arthur had awoken from his stupor, at first he didn’t know or understand what had happened. His insides hurt, badly.

“Huh?” he had asked no one in particular, looking around in confusion, his head aching. He pushed himself up on his hands, panting, his legs flung out to the side. His boots were scraped and scuffed. His belt buckle jingled in a merry mockery of what had happened to him. His pant buttons were open. He felt behind himself and winced, his fingers trembling when he saw that they were wet with blood. The realization of what had occurred sent a shock through him. He felt lightheaded, and nauseated. “Oh my Lord,” he muttered in horror, swallowing hard around the lump that had formed in his throat. He wiped his hand over his face, rising to his feet painfully, his legs aching, his insides burning.

“Ah! Ugh! Ow,” he shuddered, breathing hard. He knew he should probably see a doctor, but he would really rather die than admit to anyone what had happened. He was just trying to be nice.

He was just trying to be polite.

And look where that got him.

\---------------

Arthur had been hunting in the swamps north of Saint Denis, feeling a hankering for alligator stew. He had been on horseback for the better part of a week doing various odds and ends for others, and he was tired, ready for a break. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he hitched his horse and stretched, taking a look at his map. According to an old hunter he had spoken to in Lakay, there were a great many young gators in Bayou Nwa, where Arthur was currently, perfect for making stew. He heard a big male gator booming nearby and looked at the horizon. The sun was setting. The wilderness of the swamp was in no way a safe place to be after dark, especially when hunting gators. He had all but decided to ride to Saint Denis and rent a hotel room for the night when he noticed a light emanating from a lamp a little deeper in the forest. Sauntering toward it, careful to watch where he stepped so as not to get snakebit, he approached an old, run-down cabin.

There was a hideous man sitting in a wooden chair on the front porch. Arthur waved just as the man said,

“Hello there, mister, hello!” in a hickish drawl.

“Hey partner,” Arthur responded, always erring on the side of friendliness where he could. The man stood, sliding his chair back with a squeak as he leaned against the side of his house and crossed his arms over his chest in a casual motion.

“You must be real lonely out here, friend,” the man observed, tucking his hands into the bib of his overalls now. Arthur shrugged, a little uncomfortable, but he could determine no obvious reason to be hostile, so he came closer. “So, you hungry? Huh? I got food. I got food inside, come along,” the man urged him. It wasn’t an uncommon offer. Arthur had supped with strangers before, usually as a precursor to being asked to do some menial task or other. He shrugged. He needed money and he didn’t mind work, so he stepped up the stairs of the porch and went inside after the man, who had a wan smile painted on his odd features. Arthur smelled the food the man was cooking inside the dilapidated cabin. It smelled really good, like spicy chili. Something about the little man made Arthur uncomfortable, but he didn’t want to be rude, and he was committed now that he was inside. “Now come ‘ere,” the man ordered, his tone changing to one of lecherous aggression. Before Arthur could turn to defend himself, a board or some other unyielding object was brought down over his head with a mighty _crack!_

Arthur staggered and fell to the ground with a cry. Of course, he would pick the one hillbilly in the swamp who would rob a guest, he thought with irritation. He reached for his gunbelt, but another blow struck, knocking him mostly unconscious. Arthur groaned as he felt his guns stripped off him, realized his hands were being tied behind his back. Oh shit, the man must know about his bounty. He squirmed, trying to wriggle free, but the odd little man just purred as Arthur fought him.

“Yeah, that’s right, big man, you fight me, see what happens,” he hissed.

The next thing Arthur knew, he was in a struggle to keep himself clothed. Surprisingly strong hands went to his pants, tugging them roughly down. The blood drained from Arthur’s face. This wasn’t about money, or a bounty. This was about power and those who no longer had any. He screamed, trying to escape, but another blow landed.

“Don’t you hate ol’ Sonny, now,” the man told him frankly, pushing the back of Arthur’s head down hard so that the outlaw’s face was smashed flatly against the dirty floor. His attacker unbuckled his overalls with his free hand, the clasps jingling. “Don’t hate him,” the man teased, voice harsh. Arthur heard his pistol being cocked, felt the barrel sit against his temple and he went limp, mouth gaping desperately for breath. His body stopped moving against his will. It was like all the fight had gone out of him, and there was nothing he could do. The pure shock at being attacked like this made him feel frozen with terror and some other, inexplicable emotion. His consciousness wobbled, fading in and out.

Arthur remembered fingernails scraping and tearing, remembered scrabbling, remembered hot breath next to his ear and clammy hands in places where he didn’t want to be touched.

Arthur shrieked at the press of insistent flesh, panicking and trying to push the man off, feeling deep shame at his body’s responses, feeling nausea at the way he was being handled.

Arthur did not consider himself to be a good person.

That said, he could hardly believe that anyone would do something like this to anyone else.

His cheek scraped roughly against the wooden floor and he felt hot breath on his ear with each of the man’s disgusting groans of pleasure. Arthur dug his fingernails into his bound palms, drawing blood as he clenched his jaw against the pain that speared him to the core.

Allowing himself to black out, Arthur stopped fighting to stay awake. He didn’t want to experience any more of this than he had to.

When he awoke, Arthur’s jaw clenched, his shoulders aching from the bonds. He felt…no, _please no_ …his insides burned like wildfire. Cracking open one eye, he realized there was a filthy hand petting him like a dog.

“What? Umph,” he rasped, blinking, everything hurting.

“Oh, you struggled,” the man told him in an almost regretful tone, petting his head gently. He sucked his teeth. “And you lost. But it was quite a tussle, I tell you,” he laughed, “quite a tussle, my pet.” Arthur tried to jerk away from his touch, but his head spun, so he lay still. “See? Friendship ain’t so tough.” The stranger leaned down and licked Arthur’s ear. Arthur just barely held in a whimper, instead forcing a disgusted grunt to bubble up and out of his throat. “And neither is you,” his rapist reminded him, lip curling. Arthur closed his eyes again, hoping he would die before this man used him again.

\-----------------

Shaking his gun belt back into place and forcing himself to stand, Arthur felt a hard lump form in his throat. All his life he had been taught to be strong, to be manly, to be brave. Right about now, all he felt like doing was crying. Convincing himself his tears were for the pain, and not other, darker things, he let himself cry for a moment, soft, angry sobs escaping through tightly clenched teeth, but he sniffled and wiped tears roughly away when he heard hoofbeats on the nearby road. He waited for the person to pass and then surveyed his surroundings more thoroughly.

“Now, where am I?” he asked himself, ignoring the tremble in his voice. He stumbled, limping, walking bowlegged to avoid some of the pain. He saw a signpost in the distance, realized he had been dumped nearby where he had been the previous morning. Letting out a hard breath and holding a hand painfully to his hip, he whistled, praying that his horse was in earshot. Hoofbeats sounded in the distance and he waited, breathing hard. When his big silver dappled stallion approached, Arthur stepped up to him, burying his face in his mane. “Hey boah,” he greeted. The horse nickered, curling his neck around his master affectionately. Arthur pulled himself into his saddle, crying out in pain when his backside touched the leather. When he stood in the stirrups, he realized he had left a blot of blood in the saddle. Swallowing hard, he curled his lip. “I am gonna kill that sick son-of-a-bitch,” he ground out. His sidearm was gone, but he didn’t even want the gun anymore. After all, it had been used to render him powerless. If he never laid eyes on the familiar silver pistol again, it would be too soon.

Arthur nudged his horse forward, grinding his teeth at the ache in his seat as they trotted on.

_I shoulda stopped him,_ he thought. _I never shoulda gone into that cabin. I shoulda been more careful. Arthur Morgan, you damn fool!_ His breathing had gone sharp and shallow, his shoulders stiff as he smelled a whiff of chili. Someone was cooking it in the distance, and in an instant, he was back in that cabin again, back on the floor with his pants shoved down around his knees…

Arthur’s horse stopped, whickering. He craned his big head back and was nibbling on Arthur’s boot, nudging at him gently. They were off the main road now, and there was no one around, so Arthur covered his face with his hands and wept, great gusting sobs rocking him as he screamed into his own hands. He felt disgusting. Worthless. Dirty. Used. Arthur uncovered his face and screamed into the unfeeling void, knuckles white on the reins. His horse shied at the sudden noise, but stopped after a moment, pawing the ground softly.

“I gotta kill him, boah,” Arthur whispered. “I hafta.” He nudged his horse on until the cabin came into view. Arthur realized he was drenched in sweat, his shirt literally dripping with moisture. His thighs were stuck to his saddle with both sweat and blood, and the peeling was excruciating when he slung himself off his horse and onto the ground, letting out a little piteous cry of pain.

Some distant, academic part of Arthur’s mind wanted to question the man, demand why he would do such a thing to people.

But the other part of him, the pure, angry, animalistic side of him didn’t have the patience for that. With quick, quiet movements, he barred every escape with the garbage strewn all around the house. He carried sticks and twigs and even gathered up all the newspapers he had collected, balling them around the base of the house.

Arthur then poured every bottle of liquor he was carrying over the kindling and struck a match, tossing it onto the makeshift bonfire.

He stayed just long enough to hear the screaming, the fire flickering in his eyes, making him look otherworldly, like a demon that had escaped hell.

Moaning softly, he pulled himself up on his horse and rode away, determined not to think of it again.

\-----------------------

It was all he could think about. He had killed the man who had raped him, but he didn’t feel any better for it. Killing him didn’t undo the rape, didn’t erase the memory.

The memory, dear God, the memory, played over and over in his head.

It haunted his dreams; it haunted his thoughts.

Clammy hands.

Hot breath.

Burning pressure.

The smell of chili, cooking over Pearson’s fire.

Arthur received odd looks from the cook and his other gang members when he dropped his bowl, stepping to the side and promptly vomiting up everything he had eaten that day.

“You ain’t even tried it yet!” Pearson had hollered after him as he fled the camp, making excuses for having to leave immediately.

He jumped at every unexpected sound.

He could barely sleep.

He hardly ate.

“You okay, _ese?_ You look pale, even for a _guerro_ ,” Javier had commented cursorily.

“‘m fine,” Arthur had barked. He had spent the next three days in the wilderness.

“I do hope you know that I truly value our friendship, Mr. Morgan,” Reverend Swanson began in one of his drunken stupors a few days later. Arthur winced.

“Not now, preacher,” he snapped.

 _“See? Friendship ain’t so tough. And neither is you_ ,” Arthur heard in his mind, squeezing his eyes shut and then storming off to the river to bathe himself for the fifth time that day alone, scrubbing until his skin was red and raw.

_I shoulda stopped him._

_Why didn’t I stop him?_

_I shouldn’t have gone in the cabin._

_I’m worthless._

_I deserved this._

_All them folks I robbed, all them people I hurt…_

_I deserved this._

_I deserved this._

“I deserved this,” he cried in his sleep, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes.

Charles’ firm hand on his arm, tugging him awake.

“No, Arthur, you didn’t.” Arthur sat up abruptly as he awoke, his heart pounding, his breaths coming fast and shallow.

“The hell you talkin’ about, Charles? Don’t touch me!” he yelled, furious. He slung a balled fist into Charles’ belly. The other man let out loud “oof!” and staggered back.

“Something happened to you, Arthur, and whatever it was, you did not deserve it. You come talk to me, when you can,” Charles said, rubbing his stomach painfully.

\-------------

A month passed and Arthur felt no better. If anything, he felt numb. He did as he was told, finding money for the gang, earning his keep, but the color had gone out of his life. His drive was gone. If Dutch noticed this, he opted not to act on it. Micah just insinuated himself deeper into the gang, but Arthur found he didn’t have the energy to care. Mary wrote him, and he didn’t respond.

Arthur’s pencil tip was poised above a blank page of his journal. He was sitting on a fallen tree just far enough outside camp that no one could hear him or see him easily. He hadn’t yet had the wherewithal to write down what had happened to him. He didn’t know if he ever would. He rammed his journal back in his satchel and snapped the pencil in half in a sudden fit of rage, panting and wiping his face roughly as tears welled up in his eyes. He cried softly into his hands again, feeling weak, feeling worthless, feeling like he wanted to die.

Footsteps approached, and Arthur sniffled roughly, wiping his face with his black bandana.

“Uncle Arthur? Why are you crying?” Jack asked him, face crinkled into an expression of deep concern and puzzlement.

“Well, you know, just…ah, havin’ a rough day, Jack,” Arthur forced out in an unsteady voice. “Do me a favor and don’t tell no one you saw me over here blubberin’, okay?” Jack cocked his head for a moment, then nodded.

“Mama says it’s okay to cry when we’re upset.” Arthur looked up at the bright afternoon sky, sniffing and swallowing roughly. His eyes were still glittering with tears when he looked over at Jack.

“You listen to your mama, boy. Your daddy too. And you be careful in these woods. You never know what kinda folk are lingerin’ here,” he murmured. “I’m, uh…” His voice shook and he stopped for a moment, slamming his eyes shut and pressing his lips together hard. “I may be gone for a while, Jack. I may…may not see you for…a long while. But I want you to be a brave kid, okay? For me?”

“Okay,” Jack agreed, his voice small.

“You go on back to your folks now, Jack. Be good. And remember what I said about tellin’ anyone,” he reminded the child.

\----------

“You plannin’ on slinging that rope over the branch there, Arthur?” asked John’s hoarse voice. Arthur was fiddling with his lasso, which he had tied into a hangman’s noose. He was staring up at a huge oak tree, trying to make a decision. He turned to John with a sneer.

“You gonna stop me if I do?” he challenged, his tone miserable.

“Yeah,” John nodded, “I am. Charles here too.”

“He’s right, Arthur. Whatever it is that happened to you…you can’t undo it, but you can talk about it. Heal from it.” Arthur’s lip curled.

“You won’t ever be able to look me in the eyes again,” he told them in a dull, lifeless voice.

“Let us be the judge of that,” Charles ordered evenly, stepping forward and taking the end of Arthur’s lasso.

“Yeah, and anyway, whatever it is, can’t be worse than dying,” John thought out loud. Arthur met his eyes calmly.

“That’s where you’re wrong, John.” Charles held up a hand to stop any response John may have had to that.

“Let’s go fishing,” Charles suggested. Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but Charles ignored it, tugging the rope firmly from his hands and sticking it in his own satchel.

A few minutes later, they were standing, John and Charles on either side of Arthur, each with a fishing pole in their hands, lazily reeling their lines. Arthur’s shoulders were a stiff line, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth squeaked.

“You came back a month ago, your pistol missing,” Charles started. “I found the pants you threw out downriver, soaked in blood. Your blood, from the look of things.”

“Mighta got shot,” Arthur said flatly as an excuse.

“Might have, but you didn’t,” John responded this time. “There’s a lot of bad folk up in them swamps in Lemoyne, Arthur. We know it. Pretty sure you know it.” Arthur swallowed with an audible click and looked to each of his friends. They were his family. His brothers. If he couldn’t trust the two of them, who could he trust? Sighing, he pulled his bait out of the water and stood stock-still.

“You two have to promise me not to tell anyone. Ever.”

“I swear,” Charles said, as John responded, “I promise.”

Arthur recounted what was necessary in a soft voice, long gaps in his sentences, struggling to get it all out. He took deep breaths and did not meet his brothers’ eyes as he spoke.

But they did not judge.

They did not hate him for it.

He was not worthless.

He did _not_ deserve it.

He had survived it.


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really only exists because I wanted some good to come out of this event. I really do hate canon for this game. :(

That night, the three of them camped beneath an open sky, one on each side of Arthur. John shook him gently when a bad dream plagued him. Charles put a gentle hand on his knee when the sound of a distant gunshot startled him. They followed him unquestioningly out of camp any time he needed to talk about it.

With time and communication came healing.

After a while, Arthur was able to be polite to strangers again. Eventually, he stopped looking over his shoulder at every sound. Finally, he was himself again. With the help of Charles and John, he had put himself back together, piece by piece, no longer a broken man.

Arthur’s experienced had changed him, as any trauma is wont to do. As he healed, he decided to do his best from then on to be kind, and honorable, and tried to give those he could the benefit of the doubt. Any kindness he had to offer, he gave freely.

\------------

Arthur rode his horse up to the Downes’ farm, his heart feeling heavy. He had never felt guilt collecting debts before. He did now. He saw the skinny man working hard in the field, trying to suppress a coughing fit. A look of intense dread crossed the man’s face. _This is not right,_ Arthur thought to himself, his heart softening in the face of another man laid low by fate.

“Mr. Downes?” he greeted.

“Yes,” the man answered cautiously.

“Just wanted to let you know we’ll be givin’ you some more time on that debt.” A look of astonishment crossed the man’s face.

“Th-thank you, sir, thank you!”

“And get that cough looked at,” Arthur advised, staying well-away. “Wouldn’t want to get anyone sick.”

The outlaw walked away with a spring in his step. The air seemed brighter, the bird song sweeter. He didn’t yet know how he would manage Mr. Strauss, but it hardly mattered. Having been taken advantage of himself, he would not abide doing the same to someone else.

“Old Mr. Strauss is gonna be spittin’ mad,” John commented with a chuckle when Arthur told him what he’d done.

“Well, let him. Ain’t like he needs the money anyway. It’s only twenty bucks.”

“So, we still gonna spring Micah again?”

“Nah,” Arthur answered, lighting a cigarette casually and patting his horse’s neck. “I talked Dutch out of standing up for that good-for-nothing. Apparently, the man can still listen to reason,” he drawled. “Come on. Let’s go home.”


End file.
